No one is in control of life anywhere near so much as we might choose to believe. At some level we all know this but we also rarely choose to acknowledge it; it frightens us. Our endless fascination with pattern and order, with declarations of certainty and knowledge – these are at least in part a direct (and inverse) measure of our own longing for control and in forever finding none, or at least a minimal expression of it, we attach our minds and our lives to external goals and images of wholeness and permanence.
Our obsession with control is really only the flip-side of our fear of loss, of death and of personal dissolution or non-existence being, becoming the nothingness of forgotten memory. It becomes very difficult to quite simply live and enjoy life when it is always in some implicit and unacknowledged way oriented towards it’s opposite. Those who claim the greatest of certainty are unaware that in their assertions they merely shout and scream their own insecurity and fear from the rooftops; but we all seem inexorabl drawn (like so many hapless moths) to these flames and this is, for better and for worse, the world we have made for ourselves.